


Change Comes with the Tide

by grateful_bread



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A mix of book and show elements, AU, Big Sister Rheanys "Taking Care Of" Mourning Little Brother, D&D can bathe in Wildfire, F/M, Fluff, I just changed Jon's name because Aegon is alive, Jonerys, Rhaegar Wins AU, Show Dany (Season 7 Episode 5) x AU Jon, Some angst, The Long Night, The Night King can Aim, What the fuck was the plot to capture a wight anyway, fuck season 8, writing about two brothers with the same name in the same kingdom is bloody hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-04-06 10:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grateful_bread/pseuds/grateful_bread
Summary: The mission beyond the wall fails. Dany falls into the icy depths of a frigid, unknown lake, succumbing to the darkness consuming her.Daeron Targaryen, third of his name, rules as the Prince of Dragonstone. The second son of Rhaegar Targaryen, he lives in glorified exile with his mother Lyanna Stark. He lives in constant regret over the fate that befell his best friend and aunt by kin ten years ago. That is until on one restless night, he finds a girl with lilac eyes and silver hair on the beaches of Dragonstone.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be my first foray into AU, but with some familiar twists. My goal is to avoid unnecessary exposition up front, and allow you all to instead infer and interpret what is different in this AU through character dialogue. As always criticism and feedback are greatly appreciated and encouraged. This story is more than likely going to get a bit bulky and I am curious to hear all of your thoughts.

**Prologue**

 

_ She is flying. _

 

_ No. That's not quite right. _

 

_ She is falling. _

 

Jon had been right. Of course, he’d been right. The White Walkers, the threat of the dead, all of it. The moment she had cleared the Wall with her children she had begun to mentally kick herself. If she had just trusted Jon, there would have been no need for this sham of a scheme by her hand, Lord Tyrion. They could have conquered this unbelievable foe together. 

 

Viserion, her precious son would still be alive.

 

Jon Snow would still be alive.

 

She wouldn’t currently be falling through ice and snow towards the ever closer frigid lake of water beneath her.

 

When her nimble body connected with the frozen depths, it was as if a thunderclap from the storm that birthed her, rang through her body. Her hearing failed, amid the deafening noise. Her body felt numb. Ribs, more than likely her left arm broken. Somewhere, as if in a different life, she heard the dying shrieks of Drogon as his lifeless body sunk beneath the dark abyss. 

 

She was alone. More alone than she had ever been. 

 

Steeling herself, she reached out for a sheet of ice within her feeble grasp. She arose, as she had done many times before. Assassins, lying words on the wind, she had overcame them all. Even the dead would not stop her. Daenerys Targaryen frantically looked around, surveying her surroundings. 

 

The dead were coming, and she was alone. Her eyes came to rest on an eerily familiar longsword. Valyrian steel. Adorned with a wolf’s head pommel and red eyes. Longclaw. 

 

Dany had never fought with a sword before. When she was but a girl, she often read stories of her fabled ancestor, Visenya. She had rode on the back of her dragon Vhagar, sword in hand with her brother Aegon and sister Rhaenys. She often imagined herself as Visenya, a warrior queen, master of both sword and dragon. She had considered asking Ser Barristan for lessons, in the brief time she had known him. But those optimistic dreams were robbed of her in the dark, treacherous streets of Meereen. 

 

That didn’t matter now though. She was Daenerys Stormborn, a Khaleesi, a warrior queen in her own right. She reached for Longclaw with her uninjured arm; it felt awkward in her grasp. Unfamiliar, yet familiar all the same. An intricate piece of her honourable fool. The man she had allowed herself to care for. She brought it to bare, a frivolous mockery of what she had seen Ser Jorah do so many times. 

 

Another shriek on the winds of winter.

 

She looked around frantically, and spotted her last living son. Rhaegal, named after her long lost brother and unborn son, came crashing out of the sky. The same fate as had befallen his siblings. 

 

“Rhaegal!” She cried out, her words lost on the wind. 

 

Her son of bronze and green crashed into the ice sheet she precariously stood on. Thrown back once more into the dark abyss of the frozen lake, a symbol of her failure and undoing.

 

As she sunk into it’s cold embrace, she felt a twinge of fear; a feeling not commonly felt to her. Darkness overtook her. 


	2. Lilac Eyes, Silver Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron Targaryen broods. A fate altering discovery is made on the shores of Dragonstone.

**Chapter 1 - Lilac Eyes, Silver Hair**

Ten years.

Ten excruciating long years.Yet, the pain had not faded. In fact it felt worse than it had ever had.

Daeron Targaryen, third of his name, stood in silent vigil with Aegon’s Painted Table on Dragonstone. It had become a habit in recent years, in those dark times when sleep escaped him.

“The Prince of Dragonstone,” he chuckled to himself. It was a sham. All of it. Daeron knew what his position truly was, a glorified exile. A second son. An asset to his lord father, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. A tool to serve the crown.

He heard faint footsteps approaching. Daeron sighed. “Does it ever get easier Mother?” Only one other person in this farce of a castle could sneak up on him; his mother Lyanna Stark.

He felt the calm embrace of his mother. His rock.

“Truthfully?” Lyanna sighed, It does not.”

Daeron grimaced. He turned his gaze away from his mother, his visage masked in the shadows of faint firelight.

Lyanna continued, “I know these words will ring on hollow your ears, but as your mother I fear I must utter them anyway.”

Daeron shifted uncomfortably.

“She would want you to be happy my son.”

“If you are suggesting that I accept Rhaegar’s proposition of betrothal to-,” he began to grind out.

“No.” His mother cut him off sharply, with a light slap on his chest. “Never that.”

Lyanna continued, her steel grey eyes boring holes into his own, “If and when you feel as though you can love, it will be one of your choice. Their political standing and value be damned by all gods Old and New.” At this Daeron laughed. Genuinely laughed. His mother was fierce, a warrior of skill that should be respected more than she was. He owed everything he knew of that craft and to his uncle, Benjen Stark, who made up the only member of the Kingsguard responsible for his mother and himself. She would never let the petty requests of her forgotten Targaryen “husband” bind her and much less her beloved son.

Daeron looked at his mother in this moment. She was strong, she was unwavering, she was the North. She had given everything to love his father, and she was repaid in treachery of the heart.

On some level, Daeron understood it. But matters of the heart where rarely that simple. Rhaegar dared to love Lyanna despite all expectations. Despite, the love he should have shown for his legitimate firstborn. Aegon and Rhaenys. Oh how Daeron wished he knew his half-siblings better. In the seldom moments they had stolen away time for one another at weddings and tourneys, they had all three found they had much in common.

He craved acceptance from them, from Rhaegar. Instead he was given what amounted to exile.

His other uncle, the ever honorable Ned Stark had explained the politics of it all to him many times:

“Through mistakes of my own, and previous allies, I am afraid that you and your mother will shoulder the blame for our transgressions. I wish it were not so, I wish things had occurred in a different fashion. Dorne is a powerful ally, if Rhaegar were to welcome you and mother to court, it would disrupt the balance of power required to appease the Dornish. They would see it a disrespect, a stain on their honor. In the past you ancestors relied on dragons to keep the peace, now more mundane methods are required to keep order within the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daeron had found himself uncaring of the words his Uncle gave to him at the time, and even more so now.

He would trade everything, his name, his birthright, even his own life for what he had lost. His best friend. His kin. His aunt. Daenerys Targaryen.

Ten years ago. The wound feels just as fresh now as they did then.

His mother choked back a sob, and he held her closer. They had both experienced unbelievable loss at such an early age.

Eventually, his lady mother took her leave. Departing she pleaded with him, “Try to sleep my son, the burdens of the mind can best handle those of the heart with ample rest.” Kissing her on the forehead, he bade his mother goodnight. Daeron Targaryen would not find sleep that night, despite any words his mother might leave him to comfort him.

Turning from her, he gazed past Aegon’s Painted Table to the shores of Dragonstone. It would storm soon. He could smell it in the acrid, taunting twilight of the night. To the best of his memory, there had yet to be a year since Dany’s passing where it hadn’t stormed with the same vitriol as it had to welcome in her birth.

“I miss you more every day Dany,” he spoke to the the rumbling wind.

“Uncle Benjen often speaks of how grief is akin to snowfall; how sometimes a blizzard rolls in and it feels inescapable. Despite it all though spring comes, and we feel a moment of peace and tranquility as the snowfall melts away. I can’t bring myself to believe this though, I have lived ten name days since your departure, and spring feels nowhere in sight. Not even a dream of spring has frequented my memory.” Deep down he know no one can hear him. No matter how many of his words are carried on the empty wind, she will not come back to him.

He felts tears running along his clean shaven face. Alone in this place of his ancestors, no, of their ancestors, he allowed himself to weep. To cry for her.

As the summer storm rolled in, and rain began to batter the sides of the ancestral home of House Targaryen, Daeron felt possessed. He felt the inescapable urge to forgo his boots and stand in the surf of the breaking midnight tide, as he and Dany had done as children.

And so he did. He was a dragon after all, and dragons feel no fear.

It felt cathartic. He felt better than he had in years allowing himself to be drenched by the salty waves of the Narrow Sea and the rain of this summer storm.

Despite his melancholy, his eyes caught something in the shallows.

No, that's not right, not something, someone.

Yelling out in spite of himself, he shed his cloak and swam out to this unknown figure. He latched on, fighting the summer storm and swam both of them to shore.

Upon the return to the shores to Dragonstone he looked closer at the figure of who he saved.

His heart stopped.

Lilac eyes, silver hair.

Clad in a garment of white fur, a clasp of their house’s sigal, the Three-Headed Dragon, to her collarbone, and a longsword with a wolf’s head pommel in her right hand, lay the source of his nightmares and dreams.

Daenerys Targaryen, his aunt, his best friend.

Daeron held her on the surf, rain and lightning crashing around them and wept.


	3. Grey Eyes, Dark-Brown Locks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys awakens in a familiar, yet unfamiliar place.

**Chapter 2: Grey Eyes, Dark-Brown Locks**

Cold, unbearable cold and darkness.That was all she remembered.

Viserion, Rhaegal, Drogon, all falling like flies to a trap, each felled like a common household nuisance.

Jon Snow run through by a White Walker with a spear of ice, his blood running rampant amongst the snow. Her cries of anguish lost amongst the pain and despair on that field of fragile ice.

She’s floating.

“Is this the end?” she muses. In this bloom of unending darkness, she feels strangely at peace. Not unlike the fleeting memories she had during her youth in the Free Cities. Of Red Doors and Lemon Trees.

A tether pulls at her midsection. A force urging her back to the land of mortality.

She realizes that she is floating. Floating on unfamiliar waves.

There is a feeling about her. Something firm, something familiar grasp her shoulders.

Darkness swallows her again.

Her lilac eyes flutter open.

Hewn rock, Valyrian styled the walls lit by subtle torchlight. She is home. Or rather whatever brief home she had felt in her stay Dragonstone.

Panic overwhelms her, a million questions bubble to the surface.

Where are her children? Where is Missandei? Where is Tyrion? Where is Jorah? Where is Jon? What of the White Walkers?

Where is she?

She looks about her room in fright. Everything looks at peace, akin to how it did before her venture beyond the wall.

Her eyes fall on a shadowy figure, in a restless vigil at her bedside.

Jon.

She’d recognize that somber expression anywhere and those dark-brown locks of hair. He had intertwined with his hand hers. Heart heart was beating a million times per minute.

“If I look back I am lost.” )It was a mantra she’d lived by for most of her life. It had never failed her. Yet, Jon had broken down all of that artificial armor she had created. She dared to feel acceptance, to feel compassion, to feel love.

“Jon?” she chanced in the darkness.

Her shadowy confidant stirred in the darkness.

“Dany?” he answered.

Daenerys chuckled, and then coughed, her ribs were definitely broken. Jon raised a cup of water to her lips for which she gratefully obliged.

“My brother used to call me, Dany.” she answered. “Not the type of company you’d wish to keep.”

She’d meant it playfully, but by the way his eyebrows knitted together, she knew she had made a mistake.

“I thought I’d lost you.” He sounded broken, as if he had been sure for a thousand years that she had died. She attempted to tighten her grip on his hand as he pulled away.

“It will take more than dead men and ice magic to fell the Mother of Dragons.”

He grimaced.

“Dead men and ice magic?” he asked incredulously.

Dany gave him a curious look “Yes Jon, the White Walkers, The Others, the threat to the whole realm?”

His gaze wandered, staring at the wall beyond her.

“Mother of Dragons?” he asked dumbstruck.

She was beginning to become cross.

“Are you having me on right now? If so it is a poor jest.” Daenerys spat out.

He chuckled. Yes, she was definitely starting to feel angry.

“How is this funny to you?” she nearly cried. “You came before my court not two moons ago claiming my conquest of the Seven Kingdoms was futile if I did not address the true war. ‘The war between the living and the dead as you put it”

Jon gave her that far off look again.

“Dany… what is my name?”

She felt her blood run cold. She felt trapped. As alone and frozen as she had felt on those icy sheets beyond the Wall.

Hesitating for a moment she finally answered. “...Your name is Jon Snow, King in the North, you are the son of Eddard Stark.” She was careful to avoid the term bastard.

She chanced a gaze into his grey eyes. They were far away.

Jon sighed. He was disappointed, she could see it in his eyes.

“No.”

She looked at him in the waning moonlight.

“My name isn’t Jon Snow. Eddard Stark is not my father nor has he ever been.”

He turned and looked at her. Grey eyes met lilac.

“I was born in a tower in Dorne...” he began. Her breath hitched.

“... to Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The world froze around her. It felt as though she was seeing her very existence through the lens of a god.

“I was named Daeron Targaryen, third of my name, the second son of Rhaegar Targaryen. An afterthought, a mistake, he ground out. “I may not be a bastard as you claim I am, but I might as well be.” There was an edge in his voice that Dany had never heard before, a fiery temper faint but very present. “My very existence is a stain on both Houses Stark and Targaryen. The lust my father held for my mother caused the entire realm to bleed red. A wound from which it may never recover.”

_“Do not wake the dragon, sweet sister.”_ Viserys’ words reverberated throughout her broken form. Dany shivered.

With that Jon, (Daeron?) rose and fled from her chambers. His cloak billowing around him.

A cloak as dark as night bearing the emblazoned red Three-Headed Dragon of her house.

Tears began to collect at the corners of her eyes. Daenerys did not sleep that night.


	4. Clouds Gather, a Storm Approaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron contemplates the past; a vow is remembered. Ser Benjen Stark stands vigil in guard of the fallen princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! First of all, I wanted to thank all of you for support and give a shout out to the Jonerys discord in particular. They have been a godsend in writing out this story and giving me feedback. I will hopefully be able to utilize this feedback to its highest potential and make your experience as readers that much more enjoyable :)
> 
> Just to clarify a few things, I plan to reveal the differences, world problems, and intricacies of what makes this AU different via characters dialogue. I'm trying to avoid information dumps, although I'll make no promises that one or two might sneak its way in. Also, i'm going to be drawing on the books for some details, such as Jon (Daeron's) appearance. Namely his grey eyes and dark-brown hair. I just wanted to clarify that to reassure everyone that Daeron is Jon in this AU, the circumstances of his upbringing among other things have changed. 
> 
> Enough of that though, let's cut back to Daeron's POV. He has much to do...

**Chapter 3: Clouds Gather, a Storm Approaches**

 

It felt as though the entire castle of Dragonstone was crushing down on him.

 

He could barely breathe, much less think. 

 

Of course it wasn’t  _ her. _ For a fleeting moment he had allowed himself to hope, allowed himself to dare that she had been returned to him

 

_ “Your name is Jon Snow, King in the North, you are the son of Eddard Stark.” _

Perhaps she had thought he was someone else, but deep down he knew that it wasn’t so. The conviction by which she spoke those words, it was as if she was claiming the sky was blue or the sun yellow.

 

Cold, hard truths. 

 

The young woman occupying Dany’s old chambers may wear her face and speak with her voice, but she isn’t  _ his _ Dany. 

 

Instinctively, his hand grasped for his most treasured possession attached to a simple band around his neck.

 

The late Queen Rhaella’s ring.

 

As if the gods themselves were mocking him, he heard the deranged laughter of his grandfather echo throughout the halls. Daeron had accidentally wandered deep into Dragonstone’s East Wing in his grief-driven haze. The laughter continued, causing him to shudder.

 

Daeron retreated from that cursed part of the castle to his chambers. Making sure to latch the door, he lost himself. Grief and anguish tore through him, worse than he had ever felt. Worse than when he had first lost Daenerys all those years ago. 

 

Bile rose quickly to his throat, he relieved the contents of his stomach. 

 

His hand once again found the ring around his neck. Fresh tears threatened to spill as raw, painful memories bubbled to the surface of his mind’s eye.

 

_ “I-I can’t take this Dany, this ring was your mothers! I’ve seen how fondly you look at it!” _

 

_ “Clearly you’ve been too busy playing knights with Benjen to notice how  _ fondly _ I look at you too,” Dany giggled as she playfully poked him in the ribs.  _

 

_ Dany’s expression softened, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “You’re my best friend Daeron. After mother passed… you and Aunt Lya, you’re all I have left.” Dany gulped down a sob as he gingerly brought her into an embrace. _

 

_ “I will always be here for you Dany. I will always protect you, no matter what, until my dying day.” _

 

_ Dany laughed, an infectious bubbling laugh.   _

 

_ “Then you’ve already answered your own question my brave knight,” Dany spoke in her sing song voice.  _

_ “A knight must have a token by which to remember his lady. This ring is a part of me, and as long as you keep it close to your heart…” Dany draped the necklace bearing her mother’s ring around his neck “... than I will always have a piece of you within mine.” She brought his hand to her heart and placed a kiss on his forehead.  _

 

He had failed. Failed to protect her, to be there for her. She had departed without him, to the one place he could not follow.

 

Daenerys has always enjoyed playing on the beach, especially in the rain. 

 

_ “I am known as Stormborn after all Daeron,” Dany had scoffed with a roll of her eyes. _

 

But she was gone. Parts of him,  _ many parts _ , wished he was gone too. Wherever she had gone.

 

Melancholy, seemingly infinite sadness wracked through him again. Attempting to draw himself together, he poured himself a glass of Dornish wine, a gift from his half-sister Rhaenys. 

 

_ “It is not your fault, my sweet brother.” Rhaenys put an arm around Daeron. She had found him alone near Aegon’s Painted Table. _

 

_ “Tell me brother, what are our words?” _

 

_ Daeron hesitated, not sure how this was remotely relevant. “Fire and blood, sister.” _

 

_ “Yes.” Smirking, she continued. “Barbaric, yet also simple and to the point. I’ve come to think of them in a different way than simply dragonfire and death however.” _

 

_ Daeron shot her a quizzical look.  _

 

_ “Fire and blood; to me those words imply ruthlessness yes, but also bravery, a  _ promise _.” Rhaenys paused and came around to face him, her eyes digging into his very soul. “Being a dragon isn’t just laying waste to our enemies my dear brother, it also means we must lay waste to the fear within ourselves.” _

 

Rhaenys would be disappointed if she saw him now. The Daenerys lying broken in those chambers may not be his Dany, but she still wore her face. Still spoke in that beautiful voice that haunted his dreams. 

 

_ “I will always be here for you Dany. I will always protect you, no matter what, until my dying day.” _

 

Daeron had sworn a vow. He may not be as honor bound as his Uncle Ned, but he would not let his words to Dany ring hollow.

 

The dull throb that vibrated throughout his body as he allowed Dany’s ring to bounce off his chest was like a pebble being thrown into a lake; the ripples spread throughout his body giving him further resolve.

 

Maybe his Dany was gone forever, but this one needed his help. He owed it to her memory, and to himself to at least try.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

On his  way back through the ancient Valyrian castle, Daeron stopped at the quarters of Dragonstone’s Maester, an older gentleman by the name of Ryon Sand. 

 

Disregarding the late hour, he knocked.

 

“Who in the name of the Mother disturbs me at this hour-!” Ryon was rubbing sleep from his eyes until they suddenly widened. Daeron noticed black smudges under his eyes. Ink he guessed.

 

“M-my prince,” he stumbled into a quick bow. “I didn’t real-.”

 

“There is nothing to forgive, Ryon. I have a matter of utmost urgency that requires your aid.”

 

“I found someone washed up on the shore, presumably from the storm.” Curiously, the familiar sound of thunder was heard at his words.

 

“Ah, well yes that is to be expected these summer storms have nasty habit of crashing ships against the crags. That’s not even to speak of the Ironborn. Why Prince Doran would never-!”

 

“That is  _ quite _ enough,” Daeron hissed. He had meant this meeting to be subtle, no doubt the entire castle would awak if Ryon continued his bellowing. 

 

Regaining his composure Ryon changed tact. “What then can I do for you my prince?”

 

“For now you will follow me, and speak to no one but myself, Ser Benjen, or Queen Lyanna of this meeting or your duties tonight.”

 

“Of course my prince, your secrets are your own.” He made a move to return to his chambers. Daeron reached out with viper quick speed and grabbed his shoulders.

 

“Whatever it is you're doing, it can wait. This is much more important than musty tomes read by candlelight.”

 

Guffawing, Ryon allowed himself to be lead away. Not permitting himself or Ryon the use of a torch for fear of being seen, they traveled in silence taking one shadowy corridor after another, up a flight of stairs to the West Wing of the castle where the royal chambers were.

 

Ryon hesitated at the threshold of Daeron’s chambers, clearly assuming it to be his destination. Daeron gestured to him to continue.

 

Approaching Dany’s old chambers, his Uncle Benjen came into view in the faint twilight. The storm had passed, yet the air still felt charged with lightning that had criss-crossed the sky not hours before. Benjen approached and clasped his shoulder, the three-headed dragon inlaid on his plate armor trimmed with red paint. A mark of his station, an eternal reminder of House Stark’s punishment. 

 

“Has anyone else found out?”

 

“You know me better than that.” Benjen offered with a rare smile.

 

Daeron let out a sigh he hadn't realized he had been holding in, brushing his hand through his blown back dark-brown hair. 

 

“Thank the gods for small blessings then.” Daeron turned to Maester Ryon.

 

“Swear to me. Swear to me on the Seven. Your family. To everything you hold dear, this secret does not leave this room. Our guest had a broken left arm and several broken ribs on both sides of her torso. You will treat her, and forget you saw her. I am. I. Understood?” Daeron’s hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword, a deliberate action, and not unnoticed by Maester Ryon.

 

The venerable Maester nodded quickly, eyes darting between Benjen and Daeron. 

 

Taking his uncle aside, he whispered “Fetch my mother, but wait until morning. Get some rest, this has been a trying night for us all.” Daeron scratched at the stubble forming on his chin. “Do not enter the room until I return” Benjen nodded briskly and made his leave. After taking several steps he hesitated, and turned back to face his nephew, The Prince of Dragonstone.

 

“Do you think she is really-?”

 

“No.” Benjen looked awestruck.

 

“How can you be sure?!” Benjen exploded.

 

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “I’m not sure how I know but I do. I doesn't matter though, whoever she is, there is someone hurt in those bedchambers and that is what  _ matters  _ right now. Get some sleep Uncle, return in the morning with my Mother.” Benjen turned one final time and reluctantly made his leave. 

 

“Wait in this corridor until I call for you,” Daeron said as he turned back to face Ryon. 

 

Daeron sighed, readying himself as if he were about to face down one of the pirate or slaver raids that occasionally pillaged these lands. He grasped the ornate dragon head knob fastened to the wrought iron door bearing similar motifs, and quietly re-entered the bedchambers.


	5. Not all Who Wander are Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Winds of Winter blow in the North. Daeron and Daenerys attempt to piece together their stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everyone! I've been chewing on this chapter for a long damn time now, and I'm really not 100% happy with it. I'm gonna go ahead and commit to it though in hopes that it motivates me to trudge forward. Hopefully irl stuff will calm down enough for me to push this story forward, I still have big plans for it!
> 
> Also, to any of you who are interested, there is a new Jonerys Discord! Feel free to join in, discuss fics, the ASoIaF books, other books/shows, and help all of us brainstorm new fic ideas and prompts.
> 
> Here is the link for all that are interested: https://discord.gg/dmKH34s
> 
> Hope to see you all over there!

**Chapter 4: Not all Who Wander are Lost**

 

EDDARD STARK

 

“Twenty more you say Luwin?”

 

The venerable maester shifted uncomfortably, hesitating. “Aye, my Lord. The most recent reports come from the hamlets of Shadowpoint and Brandon’s Craig. It seems these pagan gods of the Cult of Winter spread like vermin. If we fail to act-.”

 

The Warden of the North signalled for silence. Fanatical pagan cults, wildling unrest, and a winter on the horizon sure to be more brutal than any in recent memory. Truly these were troubled times.

 

“I will not put to the sword entire villages and hamlets for following a passing fancy. Winter is coming. We cannot stand divided in the oncoming storm.” Ned sighed. The Old Gods  _ were _ the North. If he was being honest with himself, it was concerning that even the smallfolk had begun to spurn them.

 

Running a hand through his brown beard, Ned turned back to Luwin.

 

“Send for Robb, it is past time my first born learn more about the responsibilities of being Warden.” 

 

Luwin began to make his leave.

 

“Prepare a raven for Lord Manderly; it is beyond time the North explore further trade with Essos, specifically Bravos. Perhaps an influx of wealth and grain will distract the smallfolk from this passing fancy.”

 

Luwin turned, and bowed to the Warden of the North.

 

“It shall be done as you command, my Lord.”

 

An influx of trade might sate the bellies of his subjects, but deep in his bones Ned felt a sense of unshakable dread. There was change on the horizon, and more than likely not for the better.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

DAERON TARGARYEN

 

He found her much as he had left her, a broken thing laid upon her bed of linen sheets, still clad in her white garment of white fur.  _ “Not unlike Ghost’s mane” _ he mused. 

 

Pulling up the chair to her bedside, he noticed how her eyes seemed transfixed with the ceiling, the beautifully hewn rock their ancestors had carved so many long ages ago laid perfectly smooth. An everlasting testament to ancient Valyrian engineering. 

 

 “I’ve lived in this castle for as long as I can remember, it never ceases to amaze me. It stands in a league of its own, in some ways not even Maegor’s Keep can compare.”

 

“You’ve been to the Red Keep?” Daenerys asked, surprise obvious in her voice.

 

Daeron graced her with a smile; rare for him these days, “Only a handful of times. Queen Elia and my father’s Hand don’t exactly take to my presence in King’s Landing.”

 

Dany looked puzzled. “Elia? Elia Martell? My brother’s wife?”

 

“One of two wives technically, although the Septon tries to deny it,” Daeron chuckled. 

 

“Lyanna Stark,” Daenerys whispered. Daeron notice her shiver in the late twilight air; the roaring fire he had built in her chambers had long since smoldered. Not unlike the choruses of fireflies that frequented Dragonstone retiring until the morn. 

 

“ Dany…” he hesitated. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper earlier, and I shouldn’t have left you alone. It was a craven thing to do.” Daeron hesitated, eyes glancing up and down her shattered form. “I’ve brought you fresh clothes. They may perhaps be more comfortable, if a little big.” Blood seemed to rush to his face. “You remind me of Ghost after a swim in the bay.” He gave her another faint grin.

 

“Ghost? I am afraid I am unfamiliar,” she chuckled. 

 

Daeron reached out through his mind, Lyanna said his connection with Ghost was a rare gift, not unlike the relationship his ancestors shared with their dragons. A creak echoed throughout the room as the massive direwolf entered and made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed. 

 

“Aye, he is a Direwolf, the sigil of my mother’s house. A gift from my uncle Ned Stark and my cousin Robb.”

 

Daeron noticed cold wrack her body once more, he flourished the fresh clothes once more. 

___________________________________________________________________________

 

THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS

 

With no small of awkwardness, Jon- no,  _ Daeron _ helped her out her sea water-drenched clothes in favor of the dry attire he had brought with him from his chambers. Dany felt as if she was a babe in swaddling with her new attire; the clothes were clearly Daeron’s, and quite large on her petite form. Her lips turned upward in amusement at the slight tinge of pink coloring his cheeks. 

 

Once she was settled again, Daeron summoned in a maester, a portly old man by the name of Ryon Sand who examined her and bound her arm in a splint. Daeron turned to speak to the maester in hushed whispers. The worried glances he shot between Daeron and herself did not go unnoticed by Daenerys; something about her presence here was deeply unsettling to both the old maester  _ and  _ Daeron himself. 

 

Truthfully, she was equally parts terrified and confused herself. The images of the carnage beyond th eWall constantly played in her mind, like a drunk minstrel who had forgotten all but one slurred song. Her children run through by icy spears of the dead, Jon Snow bloodied and slain, his body sinking into the icy depths. Thoughts of Jon Snow turned her gaze back to Daeron. There was no denying it, the two men were one and the same. 

 

_ Blood of my blood. _

 

Tyrion had told her much of the Bastard of Winterfell. Ascending his position from baseborn son to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, finally being named King in the North. 

 

Daeron was none of those things, nor had he ever been.

 

_ “I was named Daeron Targaryen, third of my name, the second son of Rhaegar Targaryen. An afterthought, a mistake. I may not be a bastard as you claim I am, but I might as well be.” _

 

Could Jon Snow truly been her late brother’s son? The thought brought equal parts terror and joy to her troubled heart. 

 

After what seemed an eternity, Maester Ryon turned to take his leave. Dany watched as Daeron firmly grasped the maester’s shoulder, his right hand palming the pommel of the sword at his belt. Something was amiss. Finally, the Maester made his leave, retreating into the dark of night. 

 

Daeron returned to her bedside, offering her a cup of wine while setting down the bottle at her bedside. The wine was sweet on her lips; a memory of lazy days amongst the pyramids of Meereen tugged at her mind. Before Westeros, before Jon Snow, before death and a frosty darkness. Daenerys shivered despite the warmth blooming in her stomach from the wine.

 

She chanced a glance at Daeron. If a look could melt ceramic, surely his wine would be spilling from the cup grasped in his hands. He was nervous, anxious, defeated all at the same time. Perhaps it was the fading light of the fire, but he almost appeared  _ younger _ . It was almost impossible for her to look upon him and not think of the frustrating King of the North.

 

 Something was different in this place. Dragonstone had become familiar to her upon her landing in Westeros, but the bed she laid in,  _ her bed _ , felt foreign to her. Daenerys hadn’t quite ruled out death itself as a catalyst for this feeling. 

 

Taking another sip of the wine from the cup born from her uninjured arm, she decided to press on. 

 

“I know the hour is late, but I fear my mind will not rest unless we talk,” she ventured cautiously. “You seem to know me; or indeed someone like me. Indeed, in turn I know someone that bears your visage but goes by a different name entirely.”

 

The subtle attempt to reach for the cord around his neck did not escape Dany’s watch.  Indeed, she had noticed him move for whatever object he bore upon his breast several times whilst at her bedside.

 

“You claim to be my brother’s son, a member of a line that I believed extinguished beyond myself,” she began. “How did this come to be? Rhaegar was slain by the usurper, Robert Baratheon upon the Trident. My mother died giving birth to me within this very castle, forcing Viserys and I into a life of exile and torment.” Her ire began to rise. This  _ Daeron _ seemed genuine in his claims, yet the implication of his words suggested her life was a lie, that her birthright was a lie, that everything she had known as true since the beginning was a lie. 

 

Daeron grimaced, pouring himself another cup before answering. 

 

“Robert Baratheon  _ died _ , Dany. Slain by my father himself, his  love for my mother driving him far more than the lust the Baratheon usurper held for her. He cleaved Robert’s head from his shoulders, clean and true.”

 

Daenerys withdrew within herself, reeling. Dead men, white walkers, blood, and icy spears, was it possible she had died and ended up somewhere else entirely? Or was this a sham? A petty attempt by the King in the North to get her to surrender her guard before-. 

 

“You don’t believe me,” Daeron finally sighed. He looked troubled again, not unlike Jon Snow, brooding about the White Walkers, in a cave of dragonglass in what felt like a lifetime ago.

 

“Can you blame me?” Daenerys turned to meet his steel grey eyes. “What we both believe to be true conflicts with one another’s claims. How do I know this isn’t a plot to supplant my position? To undo all that I have worked for to restore and redeem my family?” The words felt almost hollow on her lips. She almost didn’t believe them herself, but she had to know for sure. To have proof brought before her so plainly that she couldn’t rationalize an alternative. 

 

_ “Daughter of death,  _ **_slayer of lies_ ** _ , bride of fire-.”  _

 

In her waking hours it was easy to mock the visions she had experienced within the House of the Undying. At night when she was alone (she had always been alone; Drogo nor her captain could calm the yearning in her heart), the voices of vision and prophecy spoke more loudly, tormenting her, causing sleep to escape her. 

 

She needed this Daeron, wearing her honorable Jon Snow’s face to bear his heart to her, to explain the madness that she had fallen into; a reality so different from her own.

 

Silence crept upon them in the waning hours of the night.

 

“Perhaps it is better to start from the beginning then as all stories should,” Daeron murmured, finally dispelling the silence.

 

“I was born in a tower in Dorne…”

 

The tale Daeron began to weave was so intricate so  _ true  _ on his lips, Dany found herself captivated despite it’s irrationality flying in the face of what she had grown to know herself. 

 

She could tell he was glossing over details, namely his relationship with  _ her _ , or whoever it was who bore her face. 

 

Rhaegar had  _ won _ . The Rebellion had  _ failed _ .

 

Her family had  _ lived, _ perhaps even thrived.

 

In a fashion,  the thought thrilled her. No longer was she the last Targaryen. Her beloved brother, his wife, her niece and nephew still drew breath, even Viserys had persevered. Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon dead at the Trident either at the hands of Rhaegar himself and those loyal to the Targaryen crown. 

 

It seemed too good to be true.

  
  


“You wield an impressive blade,” he Daeron broke finally broke their silent vigil. “If I didn’t know better. I’d say the pommel was fashioned in Ghost’s likeness,” he chuckled.

 

Oh how on the mark he was. 

 

Truthfully Dany hadn’t learned as much as she would’ve liked from the mysterious King in the North, but oftentimes they had spoke of her children and his direwolf. She had become familiar with the story as to how Longclaw became his.

 

“It was fashioned after Ghost, after House Stark in fact.” Her words seemed to stretch over the cavernous bedchambers.

 

A hint of confusion ever so briefly flashed across Daeron’s face before realization dawned upon his comey features. “It belonged to this  _ Jon Snow _ .”

 

“You speak of him as if you are not one and the same. Jon Snow bore the same face as you. I may not have known him for long, or as long as I would’ve liked-” she ground out bitterly. “-but I do not forget a face.”

 

Pressing on, Dany continued. “Jon Snow was raised in Winterfell, the bastard son of Ned Stark. I confess I do not know as much as I would like of this tale, but I do know he swore his life to the Night’s Watch on his own accord.” At this, Dany noticed the color viably drain from Daeron’s face. 

 

“The Night’s Watch? I would willingly condemn my life to a garrison of thieves, rapers, and deserters? What madness is this?” 

 

Dany couldn’t help but silently agree. Willingly committing oneself to the Night’s Watch was folly, even this much was she had garnered from her travels in Essos. To willingly swear oneself away from women or family, the thought was irrational to her. A practice that should be left to criminals and exiles alone. 

 

“He was elevated in his position, elected to the position of 998th Lord Commander at an unprecedentedly young age,” she persevered. “Jon Snow brought wildlings south of the wall, to save them from an impending doom that awaited them.”

 

Daeron scoffed, at which Dany shot him a sharp look. Not unlike how Drogon would stare down a herd of sheep. He silenced himself. 

 

“You once told me that part of the reason you brought them south of the was that ‘we are all men, which side of the wall we were born on does not dictate our fate,’ is that so ridiculous to believe?” Dany continued to stare into his eyes, wondering just how different this man was.

“Your eyes appear a million leagues away,” breaking her from her revelry. 

 

“Just a memory, nothing to concern your pretty face with,” she attempted a smile. Somehow, Dany knew things were turning for the better, at least temporarily. Experience had taught her that peace and rest never seemed to grace one for long.

 


	6. I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany continues to learn of the strange world she has awoken to.

THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS

 

There was a certain air of arrogance to Daeron. Not overly so, but Dany could tell that Daeron was more sure of himself than Jon had been.

 

It stirred something within her; something she had long sought to bury. Jon Snow had brought feelings to her mind she had long since discarded as a childhood fantasy,

 

If what he claimed was true, Eddard Stark had been the propagator of the greatest farce in Westerosi history. Jon Snow had never been a bastard - nay he was the long lost son of her dear brother and Lyanna Stark.

 

The pieces fit, laid bare before her in Daeron Targaryen, and in her mind’s eye Jon Snow, it was remarkable that no one had been able to piece it together sooner. Ser Barristatn had spoken quite plainly to her of Ned Stark’s honor; the idea that he would defame his lady wife was laughable in retrospect. 

 

Jon Snow was a Targaryen, the last son of her brother. The Trueborn heir to the Iron Throne. 

 

Oh how cruel fate was.

 

_ “Still, if what Jon...no Daeron…  _ my nephew _ , says is true, than everything that I know as truth may be different in this place.” _

 

Reaching for his hand, Dany finally spoke, “Tell me more of your sister nephew, I am afraid that my injury has addled my mind.”

 

A brief flash of pain seared across Daeron’s gaze. Had she not been looking for it, Dany doubted that she would have noticed it at all.

 

Daeron looked across her to window at her bedside. After what felt like an eternity, he clenched his hand around hers tightly and shuddered. 

 

“Rhaenys is well. My father tell me that her eldest son, Daemon is in good health. My spies- forgive me,  _ reports  _ tell me that Rodrick treats her well. I suppose that is the best any of us can hope for.”

 

“Daemon?” she replied. “That is a cursed name.”

Daeron let forth a boisterous laugh. It rang across her chambers and carried to her small ears. In that dark moment shared between the two of them, Dany decided that Daeron had a most beautiful laugh. It reminded her of Ser William Darry, it reminded her of  _ home _ . 

 

Despite herself, Dany resolved herself in that moment to make her nephew laugh whenever and wherever she could.

 

Stretching his arms above his head, Daeron finally gathered himself. “Of course it's cursed! Egg and I have only told her half a dozen times!” Daeron met Dany’s eyes, merriment dancing in them as flames upon a candle.

 

“But that has always been the way of our sister. Rhaenys shall let no man tame her. Lest it be my Lord Father, Rodrick, or Aegon I himself. She has always held true to herself.” Hesitating ever so slightly he continued. “As a secret between the two of us, I believe she named her son Daemon to spite our father. Rhaegr is… complicated. I will not pretend to love him fully, nor do I understand the reasoning behind every decision he makes. Aerys left him a realm on the brink of destruction. It is a miracle in and un itself that he has held the Seven Kingdoms together. However, it has never sat well with myself, Egg, or Viserys that he was so willing to marry his eldest daughter off to kraken scum.”

 

“Viserys lives?” Dany blurted, cursing her impetuousness.

 

This time, Daeron looked at her with curiosity. “Why would he not? Viserys is just and kind. In many ways he has lived up to his namesake. A noble feat without being a king in his own right. Your brother has proven to be a most valuable diplomat in service of my Lord Father.”

 

Daeron cursed under his breathe.

 

“Forgive me princess, you’ve been gone for so long. I naively assume out of habit that you know of every little intrigue and battle that plays out in court over the past ten years.” Daeron rose.

 

“Get some sleep Daenerys. Your injury requires much time to heal. My Ser Benjen shall be on guard outside your chambers should you require anything during the night. I shall send for Maester Ryon on the morn to tend to you.”

 

Abruptly turning, his cloak billowing adorned on the back with the crest of the three-headed dragon, Daeron made his leave with Ghost on his heels.

 

“Nephew?”

 

Daeron stopped as quickly as he had begun to make his exit, turning to face her.

 

“ I am glad that it was you who found me on this day. Your face is a calming balm in my sea of confusion.”

 

Daeron smiled, ever so slightly. “It is truly a blessing to see you Daenerys. Gods, how I have missed you in these years. I am glad that you have returned safely to me and to Dragonstone.”

 

Turning again, Daeron made his leave.

 

Despite her confusion over recent events, Dany felt strangely at ease. As she drifted off to sleep, she was dimly aware of a sense of dread foreboding forming at her subconscious. Still, there was much to be reassured about.

 

_ “A Targaryen alone is a terrible thing,”  _ an ethereal voice echoed through her mind. 

 

Succumbing to sleep, Dany smiled.

 

She was no longer alone. No longer the last of her house. 

 

Daenerys Targaryen was  _ home _ .

 


End file.
